IN IMLADRIS, WE DO NOT WEAR THONGS and speak of it
by Melkor's Drinking Buddy
Summary: The Elven Lord of Imladris is stricken when an object of great value is lost. In his desparate search for the item the nine companions reveal little-known secrets about themselves. Thong-counts, disturbing hygienic practices, Elven fantasies, and more.


**IN IMLADRIS, WE DO NOT WEAR THONGS…**and speak of it

The Elven lord of Imladris sighed deeply as he sorted through various articles of clothing in a stained oak drawer inlaid with gold and silver leaf designs. He looked out of his bedroom window, past the green canopied bed to the sweeping valley of Rivendell. Hooking a stray lock of dark brown hair behind a pointed ear, he wondered if the crystal-clear water of the river flowing through Imladris, with the gardens edging it, would always run pure. He wondered if the Last Homely House, with its turrets and sweeping balconies, would always stand, and if the cobble stone paths below its windows would always appear whole and unblemished. 

Lord Elrond had just rested the fate of Middle Earth in the palm of a Hobbit. 

Elrond wasn't so sure of the wisdom of this course but it was the only option they had that the enemy wouldn't suspect and be prepared for. Whatever the outcome, the Hobbit and his valiant friends would always be remembered as the nine companions brave enough to withstand the powers of Mordor and Sauron combined, in an attempt to destroy the One Ring. 

            Suddenly, Elrond's hand went stiff as he pawed through his drawer. A look of dismay and hopelessness crossed his features as he realized whatever he was looking for was not there.

            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *          

            Legolas, Aragorn, and Arwen heard the keening wail before they actually saw Elrond himself. They looked up the path from where they were standing to see the lord of Imladris hurtling down the path towards them, just narrowly avoiding collisions with the various fir trees lining the path. It was a peculiar sight, to see Elrond with his hair flying out behind him as he ran and nearly hyperventilating, but they didn't question him as he tried to slow his breathing and calm down.

            "Legolashaveyouseenanyofmythongsanywhere?" he gasped.

"Pardon me?" Legolas asked, his concerned gray eyes looking into Elrond's dark ones.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Elrond repeated himself, "Legolas, have you seen any of my thongs anywhere? It is a matter of utmost importance and if you have seen them, you must tell me."

"By the Valar, he wants me to see his thongs?" thought a suddenly very scared prince of Mirkwood. "Or worse, is he threatening me? Is it possible he could own more thongs than I? I am the pretty boy, not him, me! Why must I be judged on my material possessions and not how I think or feel? It is unfair for Lord Elrond to be more popular than I just because he owns more underwear! Woe is the society that looks over the more natural and appealing qualities of an Elf for his thong-count to make him move up on the social ladder! I have worked too hard to climb where I am just to be thrown down now! Why must Lord Elrond vie for competition with me? Surely he recognizes the value of the mind over the value of the body? Why must he now destroy the foundation I have built for myself in society by suddenly possessing more thongs than I? To strive for such popularity is wrong! I am a young prince and full of life; Elrond is just a millennia-old elf lord that looks like an insect in the movies!"

While Legolas was contemplating this, Aragorn smirked to himself and stroked his bristled chin with a single, filmy finger. He knew very well what Legolas thought. The long-, greasy-haired ranger couldn't resist pushing him further.

"Elrond, are you talking about the leather or fur-lined ones?"

Legolas gasped; he didn't own such extravagant undergarments.

"Yes Daddy," Arwen said naively while smoothing the skirts of her elaborate silver gown, obviously oblivious to the events around her, "are you talking about the ones that match the lavender or sky-blue nightie?"

Before Elrond answered, he waved to Glorfindel approaching them from behind, who was wearing his green forest garb and looked as if he had just returned from a hunting trip.

"Glorfi, have you seen my thongs? I may have left them in your room."

"Are you sure? I don't recall you ever leaving your thongs in my chambers." 

A bemused look crossed Legolas' face, but there was also a hint of relief. Perhaps this was not about competition after all…? 

Excusing himself, Legolas resolved to forget the last few moments with the aid of Dwarven ale from the Banquet Hall, and ran up the cobble stone path towards the Last Homely House.

Arwen moved as if to intercept the blonde Elf with the handsome, angular features running lithely up the path, but couldn't extricate herself in time from her many layers of gauzy shawls and garments to follow him.

Aragorn glanced uneasily at his betrothed as Arwen pouted two, full, red lips and absentmindedly twirled a stray lock of black hair around her right forefinger, looking a little _too _longingly at the departing Elf's back. Maybe he should've heeded Arwen's wishes and tried to take a bath _at_ _least _once a week…

Elrond sighed to himself; Legolas hadn't given him an answer. He turned and followed Legolas up the cobbled path to ask Boromir if he had seen his thongs. Boromir was most likely exchanging tales in the Hall of Fire with other Men and Elves.

Reminding himself not to run lest he should nearly run into a tree again, Elrond tried to keep his expression nonchalant as he walked through the double doors of the Last Homely House. Walking past the myriad of Elves that milled in the large halls or chatted quietly to each other, Elrond paused to admire the art around him and to calm himself by a large fountain with tall, silver, fluted stems with wide openings that resembled calla lilies and spewed water into a basin where small, golden fish streaked among the stems of lily pads. Leaning over to trail a finger in the clear water, Elrond allowed himself another moment of self-pity before rising and striding determinedly towards the Hall of Fire. He had to be brave.

 Elrond strode through the marble doors into the Hall of Fire, where people of all races listened to stories, played music, recited or invented poetry, and told tales from their history. It was an open room, and groups of Elves sat and talked quietly or listened to Elven singers. The floor and walls were of marble, and the only objects in the room were pillows to sit upon and large, ornate fireplaces that provided the light, heat, and warmth. Elrond could hear Boromir talking and gesturing loudly as he grasped the hilt of the sword at his side in his excitement, obviously recounting the tale of one of his many exploits.

"—So there I was, surrounded by thirty Orcs and my hands tied behind my back. I used my marvelous fighting skills and intuition to bite and kick one orc while I loosened my bonds upon his sword, and at the same time using him as a shield from the other orcs. I had my hands untied and all the orcs slaughtered in the span of ten heartbeats that day. It was exciting, let me tell you."

Instead of wild applause and words of praise, the son of the Steward of Gondor received twenty death-glares, contempt evident in every one.

"Smarmy Elves," Boromir thought bitterly while shaking his head of blond hair, "I would like to see them do that. Wisest and fairest of all beings my arse! Here I am, selflessly risking my life so that they can keep their immortal hides in Middle Earth, and they reward me by scorning my honor! Let's see how they react when I take the ring from that furry-footed gnome to use it for its rightful purpose to the salvation of us all!"

  "Excuse me, Boromir," Elrond stated politely as he approached the armor-clad warrior, his step nearly faltering when he saw what resembled an almost feverish light in the man's green eyes hidden beneath shaggy eyebrows, "have you seen my thongs?"

Interrupted in his private thoughts, Boromir did not miss the opportunity to boast…again. "Thongs, ha! In Gondor we do not wear thongs! We are men of righteousness and liberty, and above such petty self-absorption as to wear thongs to higher proclaim ourselves! Such things undermine what it truly means to carry oneself with honor!"

"Well," Elrond, ever the optimist, mused, "I suppose wearing different garments as opposed to thongs would help keep drafts from reaching the extremities."

Boromir was completely at a loss. He thought he knew what he was talking about, but now Elrond stirred within Boromir a strange desire to suddenly see an elf in a thong, as if such a thing would not be bad.

_Elrond in thongs…or Legolas in thongs…really not something a warrior of Gondor would wish to think about…_Boromir sat down on the floor, for once in his life content to sit in silent contemplation rather than proclaim all the virtues of Gondor. _Really, Elves are so…dainty…and…beautiful, if you're into the lithe and unearthly-in-their-immortal-glory kind of look, which I definitely am not…_

Elrond was content to leave Boromir to his musings and walked to a corner of the room where three of the four Hobbits, Merry, Pippin, and Frodo, listened with rapt attention to Bilbo, an ancient Hobbit that had been living in Rivendell for twenty-nine years. All Elrond could see of the three younger Hobbits were their thick, curly, mops of hair as their heads bobbed in agreement to some fanciful story Bilbo was telling, an occasional toss of the head revealing their small, cherubic faces with dimpled features that flickered in the firelight. Each diminutive figure was smiling or wore an expression of contentment, or, in Pippin's case, wistfulness. The old Hobbit was cast in shadow, but the Elven lord could see that his thinning hair was white, and that his wrinkled, mottled hands occasionally trembled. Elrond had decided long ago that Hobbits were creatures far beyond his comprehension. They were three feet tall with curly hair on both their heads and their feet, resembling miniature humans. They were quite simple, really, but at the strangest times they could surprise you with their bravery and integrity, even though those two traits seemed non-existent in the race.

"Hello, Bilbo," Elrond smiled warmly. "How is your book coming along?"

"I've thought of an ending for my book," the old hobbit beamed, "It goes, '…and he lived happily until the end of his days.' "

Formalities gotten over with, the cheerful look left Elrond's face to be replaced by a dark cloud.

"Have any of you seen my thongs?" he asked. "They are missing."

All the Hobbits except for Bilbo and Pippin looked askance at Elrond; Bilbo because he and Elrond were good friends, and Pippin, because, in his childhood innocence, didn't know what thongs were.

Merry was suddenly assaulted by an amazing daydream. He had examined some of the maps in Elrond's home, and remembered seeing the land of Ithilien, which Elrond had told him, was slowly falling into the hands of the enemy. The warriors in Ithilien often assembled into gatherings, to discuss what they've learned and to come up with tactics to stop the enemy's army from sweeping the land. Merry always fancied that these gatherings lead to strange tribal rituals and war dances, and with the mention of "thongs," his mind reeled…

_Merry was dancing around a huge bonfire set in a glade in the middle of a forest, stars twinkling in the dark midnight sky above him. Many Men danced along with him, drums beating in the background to the accompaniment of chanting. They all wore loincloths and had complex, swirling designs drawn in mud covering them from head to toe, and thongs were worn over their heads to hide the wearers from evil spirits. The Men were working themselves into a frenzy, and additional thongs were being twirled in their hands like boleros. Then they all stopped dancing, and as one, they all fired their thongs into the air like so many rubber bands, chanting, "**STOP** the Oliphaunt, **SAVE** our people! **STOP** the Oliphaunt, **SAVE** our people…!"_

Pippin looked at Merry curiously, who had a strange expression painted on his face, bordering from wistfulness to absolute bliss, but didn't say anything.

"Why don't you check the gardens, out by the rose bushes?" Bilbo suggested, not realizing that the Hobbit beside him looked like he had smoked too much Hobbit weed. 

Elrond thanked him graciously and left the Hall of Fire out through the gilt marble doors while trying hard not to run. He passed through the labyrinth of corridors to finally arrive at the front gates leading out to the valley. Skirting several ponds, fountains, statues, and flowers, Elrond reached the heart of Rivendell's garden, the rose garden. He breathed in the sweet aroma of the late summer roses that trailed up various arbors and hedges, trying to calm himself. It didn't work. He paused in his contemplations when he heard a faint shuffling sound.

"Hello, Lord Elrond, I was just here to admire the beautiful flowers here. It reminds me of my Rosie Cotton back home."

Elrond smiled at the gentle, carefree nature of the Hobbits. They truly enjoyed the simple things nature and the world had to offer. But Elrond had more important matters to attend to.

"Samwise, have you come across my thongs? I would like to find them."

"Thongs!?" thought Sam. "Would such a thing be comfortable? Now there you go, Samwise Gamgee, the lord of Imladris himself asks for your help and what do you do? You let your mind wander, that's what. What would the old gaffer say? Probably, '_Samwise, if you let your mind wander any more than it does now, you'd lose it, just as sure as if it floated out your ears._' Now Mister Frodo also told me the Elves may seem strange at first, and that we shouldn't question their ways. They're too complex, too wise for us to even begin to comprehend what they may think. I love the Elves, and I vowed never to think badly of them. No matter how strange this may seem, I must hold my tongue, and only pray to Illuvator that I may become half as wise as them so I can begin to understand."

Tucking a strawberry blond lock of hair behind his ear, Sam answered sincerely, "I'm sorry, but I haven't seen your thongs."

On his way back to the Hall of Fire, Elrond paused when he saw the Dwarf Gimli admiring a white marble statue of an Elf. Elrond couldn't for the life of him even begin to try to understand Gimli, or Dwarves, for that matter. Gimli was still adorned in traveling garb, having dismissed the Elves who offered to help him draw water and give him fresh clothing with a gruff, "Bah," upon his arrival. Gimli was almost as surly when it came to taking baths as he was about his beard. He kept his orange beard meticulously braided and well groomed, and tolerated no one to muss it in any way, shape, or form, on behalf of their own personal safety. He always kept his axe in hand while around the Elves, while Elrond knew the Dwarf could never be in a more safer, friendlier place, except perhaps for other Elven kingdoms. He had never seen the Dwarf take off his old, battered helm, either. 

"There is amazing craftsmanship in this statue, Elrond," Gimli said while Elrond was thinking all this, "and the grain of the marble is excellent.  But I must say, Elrond, the artisans must have been drunk when they chose the statue's model, for it hardly resembles any thing beautiful."

Elrond's face reddened as Gimli smirked. It was a statue of Elrond himself.

Trying to look intimidating and failing miserably under the dwarf's ever-widening smirk, Elrond fixed Gimli with a disconcerting Elvish gaze full of the power of the kings of old, and asked his question.

Gimli just snorted. "Stupid, nancing Elves," he thought, "always putting beauty above comfort. We Dwarves are the ones that have truly seen reason. We do not wear underwear! Freedom of movement is the key to any battle or the fulfillment of the soul. We do not burden ourselves with rules of conduct or a narrow-minded sense of social standing based on appearance. Such things only constrict oneself to the limits of one's society, making them a slave to their own standards that they so strive to follow. Nay, I say, nay to thongs and underwear alike! Not until societies have fully realized their potential as individuals instead of fashion slaves will any societies find true inner peace. To be forced under the yoke fashion is wrong; to be oneself is to have gotten a treasure beyond priceless."

Elrond had sighed and walked away before Gimli had time to finish snorting. He had been doing a lot of sighing lately. Elrond paused and touched his fingers to the marble paneling at the wall to his right, admiring a fresco just above the panel of Elves in thongs. Would he ever see his again? He decided the matter needed to be addressed in the Banquet Hall the next morning at breakfast. All the residents of Rivendell would be present for the meal. 

With weary feet, Elrond trudged down another hall to enter his room, sure the morning would never come.

The next morning Elrond walked into the Banquet Hall, his face the picture of hope. There was a single, long, rectangular, oak table in the hall, and around it sat Elves, Men, Dwarves, and the five Hobbits. Tall candles running down the length of the table lighted their faces, and every face was smiling enthusiastically. Members of every race chattered freely with each other and helped to serve one another, all the while eating at the same time, differences forgotten. Embroidered tapestries in blues, gold, greens, and silver hung from the wall, depicting scenes of the Elves' love for life and nature. Elrond took his seat at the head of the breakfast table, eager to see if anyone had seen his thongs.

Rising from his seat at the end of the meal, Elrond cleared his throat importantly. "My friends, I carry grave news that must be addressed immediately." The room fell silent. For a moment Elrond choked. He had only barely picked at his food, so scared was he that no one would be able to tell him where his thongs were. The wine, breads, fruits, tarts, and desserts had been just as excellent as ever, but somehow they didn't taste the same without the familiar feel of his thongs stretched over his skin. 

Restoring his resolve, Elrond continued, "My thongs are missing. It is possible they are even in this room. I would be forever thankful if you helped me look for them."

Boromir's ears perked up. Men jumped back from their tables and out of their chairs as if they had been bitten on the rear. A few Elves peered cautiously behind tapestries, while others carefully lifted the edges of their plates to scrutinize the table underneath.

"That's funny," thought Elrond, "I don't think my thongs would fit under there…"

Comprehension dawning on the Elven lord, Elrond rose from his seat, his face a shade of red as dark as his hair. Glorfindel immediately assessed the situation and burst out laughing.

In between fits of laughter, Glorfindel managed to cry out, "The Lord of Imladris is not talking of his under things! What he means by thongs is the old term for flip-flops!"

The entire hall burst out laughing while Pippin squeaked and ran up to Elrond, holding a pair of mauve, fur-lined flip-flops.

"Why didn't you say flip-flops in the first place?" Pippin asked. "I found these next to my gear. I thought they were a gift!"

The whole hall burst out laughing again while Elrond tried to stammer around some lame excuses before finally snatching his thongs from Pippin and turning around to exit the hall. The old istari, Gandalf, chuckled to himself as he took a long drag on his pipe of Hobbit weed, the smoke curling around his gray robes and hair to finally disappear near the tip of his blue, frayed, pointed hat.

"Ah," he thought to himself, "little do they know of Elrond's obsession with accessorizing and coordinating his clothing. He is undoubtedly left to go change his clothes and readjust his makeup even as I think, which wouldn't be unlikely. Poor boy. I wonder if anyone will ever find out. I suppose they won't, if the right people keep their mouths shut. But there are some strange goings on, now a' days, so I suppose it wouldn't come as much as a surprise to anyone."

"Wait!" Boromir cried as Elrond was about to vacate the hall. 

Elrond spun on a delicately booted heel, lifting a single, perfectly penciled eyebrow before furrowing his brow in consternation and bewilderment, his face a violent shade of red beneath meticulously powdered cheeks. Without seeing his verbal aggressor, he clenched his manicured fingernails into the palms of his hands, then spun around again in a huff, leaving the Banquet Hall in a flurry of matching silver robes and tunic, his Herbal Essences conditioned hair swirling out behind him as if on a breeze. Elrond wasn't on the cover last month's issue of _ElfLord _for nothing.

Meanwhile, Boromir's thoughts reeled as he gaped at the vacant space of floor that only moments ago had been filled with the presence of whose mere mention had filled his mind with glorious images and elation. Boromir had found the courage to call out to him, and he had blown it. He had loved and cherished the idea of Elves in thongs. With the desperation of a man whose dreams have fled beyond his reach like so much water trickling between the fingers of a cupped hand, Boromir cried out at Elrond's retreating back, "Boxers or briefs?"


End file.
